Mended Rift
by anaRciram
Summary: For the teenaged Shade and Coriane Calore, life is certainly interesting. There is always resistance. There is always judgement. And it's easy to get caught in the tangled web their parents have woven. (Rated T for explicit language.)
1. One: Shade

hi, this is ana, and welcome to this impulsive and unedited upload. i just finished Broken Throne, and i couldn't _not_ write my interpretation of what happens after. if you're into Throne of Glass, check out my other fic, World of Promise! just a disclaimer, i don't own any of these characters, except that Sealock fellow.

i truly hope you enjoy. updates coming soon for both my stories.

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One

_Shade_

* * *

Mom and Dad make it look effortless. In all my years of training, a lifetime of grueling workouts and combat exercises, I suppose it should be surprising I've never actually hit someone. But the truth is, my fighting experience has only extended to orange dummies and punching bags, and occasionally, _playfully_, my sister. But not to real faces that belong to real assholes who were really, _really_ asking for it.

The crack against his jaw is so audible, so impossibly loud, Coriane's back slams into the wall behind her, shock morphing her features from an expression of mere distaste into one of blatant alarm. "_Shade_—"

I ignore her. For a moment, all I can focus on is the explosion of pain that lances up my right arm, stealing my attention for a split second.

And a split second is all he needs.

Kausa Sealock rams his entire body into mine like a charging bull, sending us both flying back into a row of lockers. My head violently smashes against the metal surface, and it spins for a bit. But I refuse to be distracted, not again. I shake off the stars that form before my eyes and narrow my concentration on one thing: the nymph whose beefy arms are reeling back to pummel my ribs.

Dad's voice echoes in my head: _Don't go on the offensive right away. Put some distance between you and him. Assess him. Find his weaknesses. _Exploit _them._

Pain is easy to shove aside; I've practiced with electricons enough to have caught a few bolts in the belly (much to Mom's utter panic and remorse), and Evangeline Samos once tossed several gleaming needles my way, claiming she wanted to see if I'd inherited my mother's swiftness or my father's talent for battle. Being 7, of course I couldn't dodge all of them. I blocked out the discomfort then, and I do it now, just as Sealock's thick hand comes sailing towards my abdomen.

Vaguely, I hear my sister shrieking at us to "Stop! You absolute _idiots_, _stop!"_

I roll away quickly before my insides can become mush, springing to my feet with practiced grace. All that hard work, all those sessions at the estate yard... all worth it, just so I could wipe that infuriating sneer off Sealock's face—

"Ah! _Fuck!_" He suddenly howls, and his wrists begin to glow as a tendril of pure molten heat coils around his wrists.

I feel my eyes widen. "Cori, what—"

"Shut up," she silences me, brow furrowed in concentration. Her fingers, curling and uncurling at her side, move in tandem with the burning rope, willing it to grip tighter, to burn deeper.

My stomach sinks. A fight with fists and feet is one thing. Using abilities is another.

"Cori, stop it, you'll be expelled!"

"Calm down, it's not that hot."

I hesitate—the heat from Sealock's wrists confirms her assurance. Not too much emanating from them. Just enough to leave a mark—one that will probably last several weeks. Maybe even leave a faint scar.

Still, she'll get in fat trouble. I am no stranger to detention and referrals. But Cori? She's a star among our class, the epitome of remarkable studiousness, of perfect behavior. A princess in every way except the only way that matters.

"You listen to me, jackass," she hisses, her voice pure venom and all command, like Mom's when she's absolutely furious. "You come near me again, I will _fry_ you until you're nothing but a stain on the ground that'll take _weeks_ to wash away."

He doesn't respond, only growls as silver speckles of blood peak from beneath Cori's flaring cord. I don't know what it's like to be burned. In our family, Mom is really the only one who does. It must hurt like hell, though, as reluctant tears fill Sealock's eyes, and he bares his teeth.

"Cori, let go."

Damn it. _Damn it_. It's just been a few seconds, and I already know I shouldn't have hit him. Should have let Coriane handle him as I knew she could.

Usually, I can walk away from his jabs. But this one...

_You know, it's a big mystery to all of us, Calore, why your father would give up his throne just to fuck some Red sewage. _And _knock her up. Twice._

My teeth grit as my sister holds up a hand to me. "I'm not finished." Then she turns her attention back to the meaty boy at her scalding mercy. "You talk about my family one more time... you know what? I'm not even going to say it. Too many witnesses."

And she releases him.

His wrists flash as his blood gleams, not dripping, but the flesh beneath the skin is exposed, as if it'd been peeled back—it reminds me of my primary school days, when I'd pour glue onto my palm just to strip it away. "I will _end_ you, Calore," Sealock sneers. "Just wait till nightfall!"

Addressing me, not Cori. For all his spitefulness, he wouldn't threaten her that way. I suspect there's a reason he's so nasty to her. Which makes the situation all the more ludicrous.

My sister takes hold of my arm and all but drags me through the hall, where spectators have gathered. _Almost like an arena,_ I think with disgust. Fighting in front of an audience, chips off the old blocks.

What did they expect? That _all_ the Silvers would accept their idea of equality, of justice, of freedom? Mare Barrow and Tiberias Calore still suffer prejudice now and then, yes. But not more than their children. Not every single day.

I see the way we're looked at. Like freaks, like abominations, like mutants. Not by many, of course. But those few aren't hard to find. Those who remember that good old life, where Reds were little more than cattle, ready to obey every wave of a Silver hand.

Cori bursts into the street beyond our school through the nearest exit, me in tow, her book bag shouldered painfully on her other side. She doesn't let go, and she doesn't loosen her grip. She only whips her head back and forth, deeming the momentary lack of traffic fit for a march across. I can only follow her, reduced to nerves from her rage.

She's never this angry. Like her namesake, she's a quiet girl, calculating and calm by nature. A real opposition to my outspoken, and usually loud, temperament. She manhandles me forward, ignoring any confused looks thrown our way. It's a busy day for Fourth Street, even in the more shaded areas meant for foot traffic. Trees line a stone path that eventually leads to a shopping square. Instead of continuing on said path, Cori veers right at the first intersection, which extends into a curve, the end disappearing behind a set of brick buildings.

"Where are we going?" I ask, expecting her to snap at me. She does exactly that.

"You're a moron, Shade. We're going home."

"Home? This is the wrong way—"

"No, it's the long way. Maybe if you were less stupid, you'd deign to take this path once in a while. Maybe if you had some self-control, we wouldn't _have_ to come this way. Maybe if you—"

"What did you want me to do?" I nearly shout at her. She doesn't flinch. Behind the pale skin and caramel eyes and black hair, she's like a dormant volcano within. Never exploding, but churning with sizzling magma, ready to char anyone who tries her patience. "Did you want me to just leave it be, after he said that about Mom?"

"He wouldn't have said it if you hadn't inserted yourself into the situation! He just said it to push your buttons, Shade! And it worked. You let it work!"

"I would have won, Cori. You know I would have. Why did you intervene—?"

"I'm _tired_ of violence, Shade. It's everything in our family. Mom and Dad, generals fighting on the frontlines, leading assaults, doing what they do best: war. That's all our life is now. And I'm sick of it."

"You think they don't wish it was different? You think it doesn't hurt them to leave us, knowing they might not come back? You think they _like_ it?"

"Don't turn this on me. I'll never blame them, and you know it. Sealock's little gibes are meaningless. A product of bad parenting, of harmless opinions. But you just made it worse. And now we have Glasser, Mom and Dad, possibly the authorities, and the rest of our family to answer to."

I scoff, the way she hates. "It could have just been me. You hate violence? Why'd you burn him, then?"

She doesn't answer, but I think I know. She likes tricks, likes mind games, but deep inside, it felt good to watch him suffer, just a tiny bit.

"It wasn't your fight," she mutters after a few moments. "And I'm sorry if I didn't want to see blood dripping from your face."

I try not to be insulted at the suggestion that Sealock could actually land a blow on me. Instead, I shake my head, trying to get past the haze of anger. Her fingers have loosened a little, just a fraction, but it's enough to break her grip and grab her hand.

"Our blood does freak people out," I sigh.

Of course it does. It's no color anyone has seen before: bronze, almost gold. Half red, half silver, melding into an impossible alloy.

Red-Silver couples are not unheard of anymore. But Red-Silver children? Bizarre.

There are more like us, I know in my bones. Somewhere else in Monfort. But being the son and daughter of two of the most famous people on the continent puts us in the spotlight. We are scrutinized, occasionally gawked at my scholars and scientists just waiting to get their hands on a sample of our blood. Mom has prevented this, obviously. She would not have her children become lab rats. Not unless we decided so.

She gave Julian a small vile when we were babies. Just him; she trusted no one else. Given that both parents had abilities, there was nothing much to discover from our DNA. But then, Julian didn't have a state-of-the-art laboratory. Only a small one in his home. There might be more to us, something he didn't have the equipment to discover.

Cori echoes my sigh, tightening her hold on my hand. "Dad is going to be mad."

I roll my eyes. "Oh, shut up. Dad couldn't yell at you if you set the garage on fire."

That happened, once, when she was eight. He'd just scooped her up and let her cry into his shoulder, whispering, "It's alright, baby, accidents happen."

Meanwhile, I'd gotten a lecture and the smack of a rolled-up magazine on my ass when I broke one of his tools.

"You're his favorite."

"And you're Mom's," she counters, her own rage dissipating too. It's true; while Mom would never admit to it, I'm her baby boy, her prized firstborn.

"They're weird people," I mumble, trying to be light-hearted. "Weird people, who made weird people."

Cori swats my hand, awkwardly balancing her book bag on her shoulder to do it. "I'm not weird. Some people want me to be Queen of Norta, I'll have you know."

We joke so it doesn't loom. Nonetheless, it catches me off guard.

It's another reality of ours. Silvers in the Nortan States loyal to the monarchy, to the dynasty. Our blood tinted with crimson hardly matters. A Calore is a Calore to them: strength, fire, power. _Strength and power_. The old chant, the lethal words. They meant everything to Dad once. Now they're a relic, a memory he'd sooner melt away with his fiery hands.

We are hated. And we are wanted.

It makes for a very interesting life.

"You're not the oldest," I tell Cori, playing along. "If anything, that crown should fall to me." I know that isn't true; Mom wants us to abdicate, to put to rest any claim we might have to the Nortan throne. One day, we will. When we're both of age, when the time is right.

It's something of a shame though; with the power of a monarch, we might turn some serious tides in a bubbling war. Cori would make a good queen; she's beautiful, intelligent, charming.

Another thought strikes me.

"I think Sealock likes you."

She can't help but laugh. Any remnants of her scowl melt away, and her face brightens in a soft smile. "Obviously."

"Wha—that's... gross!"

She snorts again, adjusting the bag on her shoulder. "Of course he likes me. Why else would he be so abhorrent to me?"

"I thought he was jealous."

"Of what?"

"Of our fame, our status. Dad was a king; we're basically royalty," I joke.

Cori waves me off with a manicured hand. "We're not famous, and we're not royals. I wouldn't want to be anyway. Courts mean betrayals, lies, scandals. Haven't you listened to any of Uncle Kilorn's stories?"

How could I forget? The tale of our mother plummeting through an electric net, completely unharmed save for her clothes; of her betrothal to Prince Maven Calore; of her falling in love with Dad. Joining the Guard. Discovering my would-be uncle Maven's plot. Igniting the first of many bloody and costly conflicts—and that was ignoring the brutal campaign against the Lakelands.

A court is a place of ruin and sorrow, and for all my remarks said in jest, I well and truly am glad I had not been born into one.

"Well. This is the first I'm hearing about Kausa's little crush. I think I feel offended you didn't tell me."

"What's there to tell?"

"He might ask you to the dance."

Coriane bursts into a fit of laughter so loud, a few passersby jump and stare in alarm. She wipes at her eyes, cheeks flushed a sweet peach color. "There is no chance in hell Kausa Sealock is asking me to the end-of-year dance."

"He might, Cori. Oh, I have an idea. I'll be Kausa, and you show me how you'll say no to him."

I flex my arms, tense my stomach, set my shoulders; make myself seem as large as possible. "Excuse me," I say, my voice deepening a few notes. "I think you're really pretty, Coriane. I'm sorry I've been mean. I'm just too brainless to know how to flirt properly."

She nudges me, flushing further as others begin to stare. "You're embarrassing me."

"Will you go to the dance with me, Coriane? I don't know how to dance, but maybe you can teach me. I hear you're a _great _dancer." I wiggle my brows at her.

I'm not kidding about that part. While I am all about the quick offensive, her style of combat is lithe, graceful—almost beautiful. She'd taken ballet since she was five; Grandma Ruth insisted for some reason. It worked out nicely, I think.

She decides to play along. "I think not, you insolent, filthy, crude _assface_."

It's my turn to laugh, and I squeeze her hand tightly. "I love it."

The rest of the walk home is spent like this: trading teasing banter, ridiculing Sealock, talking about our family. It makes the trip shorter, and I don't know if that's a good thing. No doubt the school will have called by now. Mom never spares me punishment, the way Dad does with Cori.

And least he isn't there to be angry, too. He's in the States, doing his job, smoothing over the alliance where it frays and feathers. He said he'd be back by the end of the week. A quick trip. No need for Mom to tag along.

She's alone, then. No Dad to soothe her nerves if she gets too worked up.

I frown.

We find her waiting on the front porch when we arrive, leaning against the left wall, her small stature betraying a hint of hostility. The years have been kind to her. Her face looks almost the same as it does in old photographs, as does her hair. She can look scary if she wants to, though. I know from experience.

"Hi, Mom," I say stupidly.

She says nothing. Only narrows her eyes and pads inside the house, her steps quick and light.

Cori and I share a glance, and I gulp dramatically. She gives me one last smile before letting go of my hand and schooling her features into a placating expression. I try to do the same, though I'm not good at switching masks the way she is.

We follow our mother all the way to the kitchen, where she motions for us to sit on the island stools and opts to lean back against the refrigerator.

Her words are quiet. "Tell me what happened."

Cori speaks first. "The Sealock boy. He said something foul. Too foul to ignore."

"What did he say." Not a question. A demand.

"Mom, please don't make us tell you," I plead.

"What did he say, Shade?"

"Mom, you have to understand—" Cori interjects.

"Then help me understand, Coriane. What did he say?"

My sister looks at me, the message clear in her eyes. _Let me handle this._ "He called me a whore," she says, and I know it's a lie. Sealock wouldn't; not if he secretly pines for her. "Said he'd get a piece of me one day. And that he'd tell everybody."

I'll have to ask what he actually said later; all I know is that he'd been taunting her as I walked by—and began taunting me once I told him to quit. But for now, I focus on Mom, praying she doesn't see through us. I suspect any hope is futile; Mare Barrow is quite literally a trained actress. Taught by the best pretender the world has seen yet: Maven Calore himself.

My parents do not speak of him, hardly acknowledge the boy king's existence, both harboring a pain too heavy to bring into the world through tongues and teeth and lips. But I know what he was. A dream, a nightmare, a living disguise. Mom could read him, long ago, could catch a glimpse of the inner workings of his tortured mind. And while Coriane is a talented liar, she's no Maven. She's never had to pretend. She's never had to hide.

"Go upstairs, Cori."

"But Mom, I—"

"Now. We'll talk about this later."

My sister sighs, gathering up her bag again and hauling it up the stairs. Mom doesn't say a word until we hear Cori's bedroom door shut, and even then she waits a few seconds. Always careful, even in her own home.

"Are you going to tell me or should I get Julian to wheedle it out from you?"

I call her bluff. "He wouldn't. Not with me."

She doesn't budge. "He would if I asked him to."

Nevermind. He very well might.

I sigh, exasperated. "Mom, believe me when I say, you don't want to know. It was disgusting. It was atrocious. Please don't make me tell you."

"No, you _will_ tell me, Shade. I want to know why I'm getting calls about my son punching another kid in the nose—"

"It wasn't his nose, it was his cheek—"

"About my daughter _burning_ the flesh off his wrists—"

"He deserved it!"

"But why? What would possibly make _both _my children do such a thing? You _know_ the rules, Shade. One more strike like this, and you're out of that school. Is that what you want?"

"No, but you don't have to see him. Every single day, the same thing, over and over again—"

"Then why attack him now?"

"I'm not telling you. I don't even want to say it."

The skin on her arm sparks. Not in threat, just the way it does when her emotions get the best of her. "Shade Tiberiel Calore, I swear, if you don't—"

I growl, smashing my fist against the granite tabletop. "He called you Red sewage, Mom."

She blinks, frowning. Immediately, I regret saying it. I should have held my ground. Should have kept my mouth shut, regardless of how many days she might punish me. Did it hurt her? Did Sealock's big fist find its way into her gut now too?

"Is that it?"

It's my turn to blink. "Is that—what?"

"Is that it?"

I sputter, taken aback. "Um... no, there's more."

"What was it?"

"Uh... he said it was a mystery why Dad would leave his crown to... fuck,"—it feels immensely strange to curse in front of her—"Red sewage. And knock her up. Twice."

Each word is a slice at my own heart. But Mom doesn't even wince, doesn't look sad, doesn't do _anything_. She just stands there, back still against the fridge, arms crossed. Her brown eyes look stormy, but her previous ire is fading, retreating back into her head like thread in a spool.

Then she smiles.

I can do nothing but gape.

"Shade," she breathes, shaking her head. "Your father and I have always faced this kind of judgment. Especially from other Silvers, even his family. And I have a lifetime experience of having insult after insult hurled at me."

Of course she does. I huff against my arms, hands kneading at my eyes. Of course she does.

"Sewage," she mutters. "Stilts alley trash. Red rat. I've heard it all."

"But this is supposed to be a new age. Things are supposed to be _better_."

She pushes off the fridge and circles around the island, until she's beside me, pushing the brown hair from my eyes. She strokes my face once, gripping my chin so I can't look away.

"Things _are_ better. You're here, aren't you?"

I know what she means. I exist because of the cause, because of the fight for equality. I would have been killed at birth if we still lived in the world my mother grew up in. She would have been killed, too. And who knows what would have become of Dad? A silver prince, a _crown_ prince, no less. Would he still have been elevated to the throne? Would the loss have destroyed him? I think it would. The thought is unsettling.

"Yes. But this is Monfort. They're supposed to used the idea by now."

"The Sealocks are new to Monfort. They're from the States, where there's still resistance. Shade, you need to understand that things are never going to be completely fair—not while any of us are alive. It takes a lot of time. I don't want another phone call, you hear me?"

I sigh, removing her hand from my face. "Like you didn't fight at my age." It's not a jab. Just a remark.

A scoff from her. "I didn't have a future, then. I knew how to do two things: pick pockets and throw punches. I had nothing to look forward to—nothing but ash and death and bloodshed."

The old Choke, that strip of land that nothing will grow on. The Lakelands are still hostile, yes. But that strip is bare now, marked only by old bulletholes and skeletons and scars.

Mom pushes my hair back again. "Then maybe it was chance, maybe it was fate. I met your father. My life exploded. Hell, the whole country exploded. I found a place in the Guard. Norta was never the same."

She pauses, heaving a breath through her nose. "It was a hard fight, Shade. Harder than you can imagine. We lost people. Too many."

Her favorite brother, my uncle, my namesake. Some of the newbloods she'd gathered—and those she couldn't reach on time. Some Silvers she'd grown fond of. Children. Elders. And so many in between.

"You and your sister are here now. Free. You leave the fighting to us, okay?" Mom kisses the space between my brows and pulls back. "No more phone calls?"

Again, I sigh. "No promises."

"Shade."

"Yes, okay. No more phone calls."

She gives me one last smile, backing away towards the stairs, undoubtedly on her way to speak to Cori. But right as she rounds the last corner, she pokes her head from behind the wall, eyes sparking with mischief. "Oh, and by the way," she croons, "No way your dad isn't going to hear about this."

I turn away and groan.

* * *

you know i gotta ask for reviews. feedback is like crack to me. let me know what you think, and if you have any suggestions for the story, shoot me a message!

xo


	2. Two: Coriane

this chapter might seem a little chaotic, something raw and imperfect. i kind of like it that way, though. hope you don't hate it ;)

* * *

Two

_Coriane_

* * *

The morning of Dad's return is a gray one, with stormy clouds blocking any rays of sun and threatening to weep all over Ascendant. Rain is somewhat uncommon here, but even the shining beacon of the continent, known locally as the Republic of Monfort, will get some early showers.

The passing minutes make me increasingly tense, and I twist the gold bracelet around my wrist, plucking it off and snapping it back on. It's a beautiful thing, crafted by Evangeline Samos for my seventh birthday, with hand-painted white orchids decorating the ribbon-like surface. And just at the pale flesh where my palm meats my forearm, a tiny mechanism for producing sparks.

Shade's is less conspicuous; a simple band with his initials engraved in lowercase letters, right where the edge of the bracelet meets his skin. Unlike mine, his is molded perfectly to his wrist, designed never to be removed.

Gifts from our parents when we were deemed old enough to begin training with our abilities. Both pieces perfect, both flawless, as only Evangeline's work could be. Little as she cares for Mom or Dad, I know she has something of a soft spot for me and Shade.

I sigh when the first raindrops begin to fall, and Dad's car pulls up to the school driveway. It's pretty, a transport he helped design himself. Sleek and black, with doors that open upwards and not sideways, and a small emblem on the back: the symbol of Norta, three interlocking rings of red, silver, and white. His broad figure emerges quickly from the passenger side, dark uniform slightly mussed, shadows beneath his eyes.

His schedule has hardly changed from when he and Mom were young; he's still constantly exhausted, always overworked. Another flare of regret makes itself known in my stomach. This is the last thing he needs to be dealing with now.

But despite his obvious fatigue, he grins when he sees Mom peeking at him through the school's front entrance, her eyes sparked with anticipation. I know how nervous she gets when he's away; sleeping in an empty bed, waking up alone, worrying for his safety, his emotional health. I know he has nightmares, has had them ever since he was nineteen—less now that years have passed, but I will occasionally hear faint croons coming from their bedroom: Mom soothing him back to sleep. Evangeline once told me the two of them always made her want to gag. I disagree. I think it's nice, romantic. Something for a girl to dream about finding.

I just hate when they kiss. Deeply. In front of us.

Shade and I make it a point to cover our eyes and scowl as Dad strides up the steps, pulls aside the glass door, rushes to Mom, lifts her off her feet, and kisses her with absolutely no shame. I can't see, but I know she's blushing; the heat from her cheeks is suddenly so very present, I can sense it from several feet away.

"I missed you," he whispers.

"Hm," is all she says in response. She'll tell him the same later, I'm sure, when her cringing children aren't around to watch.

He doesn't put her down until I clear my throat after several moments, a guilty smile undoubtedly home on my face. Dad blinks, setting Mom on her feet to recover and opening his arms wide. "Cori."

Not _Princess_, or _Sweetheart_. My heart shrivels a tiny bit, but I fight against the sinking feeling. "Hi, Daddy," I reply, walking into his embrace. It's warm, like he always is, his wide shoulders curved around mine. Almost like a shield against the rest of the world. Always taking the blows for us Calores, always the one to get new scars. Who protects him?

Mom does, I suppose. But I know even her lightning is not enough to make all the monsters disappear.

My brother shuffles over and joins in, ducking under Dad's arm as he places it around Shade's shoulders.

"Hey, Dad."

It's clear he's unhappy with us; the set of his mouth is hard, and a muscle in his jaw feathers as he looks down the neat rows of lockers, probably expecting Glasser to be waiting by the office doors, tapping a small foot. We're late; Dad's flight was delayed because of weather precautions, and it took about an hour to get through Ascendant traffic.

"Son."

I cling to my father, silently apologizing. _I'm sorry I've put another pound of stress on you. I'm sorry you don't understand yet. You will. _Looking over at Shade, tucked into Dad's other side, it appears he's apologizing in his head, too. But Shade doesn't know what I know; he regrets his actions for different reasons.

"Alright, let's go," Mom sighs, placing a hand in the crook of Shade's elbow and pulling him forward. Dad's arm slides off, and the four of us walk in unison towards that looming wooden door at the end of the intersecting hall.

"Was it worth it, Coriane?" Dad mumbles, and my heart shrivels again.

"No," I tell him, laying my cheek against his shoulder. _But perhaps it will be._

He only kisses my hair and shakes his head.

My school is a beautiful one, with pristine walls the color of a winter sky, light grey tile, and plants wherever there is room. Small potted ones, little bonsais, water lilies floating in the fountain centered in the hall intersection. I like walking to class, chatting with peers next to the rows of lockers, hearing the buzz of conversation in the cafeteria.

I recall what Shade warned me about when I'd burned Sealock.

_Cori, stop it, you'll be expelled!_

I won't let it happen.

To think of the disappointment my family would feel. And not to mention the _headlines_. _CALORE DAUGHTER EXPELLED FOR VIOLENCE AGAINST FELLOW STUDENT. CHILDREN OF WAR REVOLUTIONARIES TAKE THE FIGHT TO THE CLASSROOM._

I frown and stare at my shoes, trying my best to shut out the possibilities. _Don't get ahead of yourself, Coriane. Things will turn out fine._

In my locker several paces away, there are some letters. Vulgar, threatening, with an open eye drawn in grey ink across the front flap. Shade doesn't get them, but I know am not the only one who does. A newblood boy who tutors in mathematics and chemistry, a Red girl two ranks below me. Those of us who aren't Silver, and who take coveted places at the top of our class. Some of their threats have come to pass; the boy arrived to class with a purple face and a broken nose once, and the girl fell suddenly ill at a most inopportune moment last year—finals.

Whatever my brother assumes, he's wrong. I did not burn Sealock out of spite. He'll find out the truth soon, and he will be angry.

Mom, Dad, Shade—they will all be angry.

I shove the thought to the back of my head, shifting my focus to the current task at hand.

It takes less than two minutes to reach the school office, door propped open with a stop, the front desk empty. I used to volunteer here; help organize student files, answer the phone, that sort of thing. My record had been spotless: the faculty trusted me not to tamper with any documents, or steal excuse slips to sell to other students (which had happened before).

It makes me sad, knowing they won't look at me the same. Really, no one will.

Tenero Glasser waits by one of the office conference rooms, an irritated furrow etched between his brows. It relaxes a little when he sees Dad—the former King Tiberias Calore VII, in the flesh.

Glasser is small, with a full head of curling hair the color of cinnamon and thin, frail-looking shoulders, and small lips that for some reason made me think of Grandpa Daniel's homemade noodles. He's never seen my father in person; just Mom, when Shade's previously gotten into trouble. My stunt with the flaming cord warrants a more serious conversation though, with every person involved.

"Um... Officer—uh, General Calore," Glasser greets Dad. "General Barrow."

"Mr. Glasser," they reply, dipping their chins.

He blinks, staring for a moment before recovering. "Yes, yes, right this way."

The wiry man leads us into the room behind him, mostly occupied by a long oval table, six gliding chairs situated on either side, with one at both extremities. And there, wrists completely healed save for a pale scar, shoulders flanked by angry parents, is Kausa Sealock.

Shade snickers when their eyes meet, and Mom digs her nails into his arm.

Kausa's parents are not what I expected; they're surprisingly short. His mother's hair is thin and ash-blonde, almost colorless, with hooded eyes and long lips. His father sports a salt-and-pepper head, a thick-fingered hand gripped tight on Kausa's arm. Wealthy, from the looks of them. And out for blood.

The woman eyes me like prey, ready to pick the flesh off my bones. I don't shrink; really, nothing about her is intimidating. If anything, she reminds me of a murderous dove. Unable to cause any real harm.

Kausa's father, on the other hand, makes my stomach swoop in unease. Yes, he is short, but his face is severe, hard, all sharp angles and harsh lines. His black eyes scrutinize every one of us, assessing, gauging. I blink, trying my best to maintain his sharp gaze.

Glasser clears his throat, breaking the terse silence. "Alright. Please, everyone sit."

The principal awkwardly takes a seat at the head of the table, and the Sealocks position themselves on his right. Some strange way of establishing a sense of dominance. Which is ridiculous. The regality of my family is unchallengeable.

Mom is lean, graceful. She neatly positions herself on Glasser's left, fingers woven together in front of her. Shade takes her side, and I take his. Dad sits in the next chair, and Kausa eyes him, the corners of his mouth drooping.

"Alright," Glasser repeats. "Now. This is... a disagreeable situation."

Kausa's mother doesn't miss a beat. "Disagreeable," she scoffs. "My son was gravely injured. That little _witch_—"

"He looks fine to me," Shade interrupts, examining his pinkie nail. "Let's see, Kausy. Does your mother know what you said to me?" He turns to Glasser. "Do _you?_"

"Irrelevant," the woman dismisses him. "Words are harmless."

My brother narrows his eyes to slits. "Are they?"

I realize with a prick in my gut that Dad might not know about the taunt that prompted Shade to hit Kausa. Did Mom tell him? In our kitchen, she'd shrugged it off, unaffected. Did she deem it unimportant during their phone call?

I can't help but dread the moment it'll come up again. I know it has to.

"Let's get this over with," I snap, and all eyes fix themselves on me. "There was a fight. Egos were wounded. Now just give us our punishment so we can all leave."

Glasser sighs. "It's not so simple, Coriane. The Sealocks here are demanding expulsion. But with your record and grade point average... well, we'd lose a top student. That could hurt our national rank in the future."

Kausa's mother steps in again. "To hell with national rank. What is one measly girl—"

Dad clears his throat. Usually, he's polite, well-mannered. But he looks impatient now, slowly tapping a finger against the wood of the table. "Expulsion is not necessary. And your son is not without his faults, Mrs. Sealock. Is he?"

_Here it comes._

"You mentioned some commentary on his part, son?" Dad asks Shade. Again, my stomach knots. Kausa seems to shrink in his seat, the weight of my mother's stare wearing him down.

For a second, I want to laugh. He doesn't look so brave now, personally faced with "Red sewage." Mom keeps her hands in front of her, and Kausa eyes them with dismay. They're dangerous hands, lethal. His family is Silver, yes. But common Silver; the power in their blood cannot possibly compare to the might in ours.

Shade shifts, leaning back. "Just another remark about the inferiority of Reds. Usual idiot nonsense."

Dad catches on quicker than an adder. I swear I can feel the temperature rise a bit, minuscule beads of sweat forming on the nape of my neck. He spares a sideways glance at Mom, who only blinks slowly, eyes still firmly set on Kausa.

The boy pales, expression pleading. And again, his mother jumps in to save him.

"Are you really going to punish my son for some trivial remark when _she_ quite literally _melted_ the flesh off his bones?"

"Mrs. Sealock, please," Mom suddenly drawls, looking as if refraining from rolling her eyes. "I know my children. And so do you, Mr. Glasser." She turns on him, keeping her posture straight. "Do you think they would initiate any kind of physical attack without reasonable cause?"

Glasser looks pointedly at Shade, who really does roll his eyes. But then he turns to me, and his expression morphs into one of hesitancy, the furrow in his brow returning.

"You said so yourself; Coriane's record is nothing short of stellar. _Why_ would she tarnish it?"

"In someone's defense," Dad rumbles, and the room grows warmer by the minute.

My mother leans forward, placing her elbows on the table. "My defense. _Do_ you know what your son said, Mrs. Sealock?"

Quiet. The air is so taut I feel as though I could snap it like a rubber band. Kausa's father, who has been silent for the past minutes, flares his nostrils, a sharp breath whistling down his throat. His cold eyes unnerve me, but I refuse to avert my gaze. He's a coward in reality; trying to teach his son the old ways, fearful of the fact that Reds are strong, Reds are formidable.

"I thought so," Mom says, lips curling in satisfaction. "Mr. Glasser, if we are to discuss my children's errors, should we not also address his? Tell me, young man," she looks Kausa straight in the face. "Will you deny that you referred to me as "Red sewage" and expressed confusion in regards to the reason my husband abdicated his throne? Assuming he did so solely for me? I can assure you, that was not the case."

"_He denies it_," the Sealock woman screeches, "What an offensive claim! I don't know what has prompted you to accuse my son of this, Ms. Barrow—"

"That's _General_ Barrow to you," Shade breaks in, eyes bright with hostility. "And _please. _I know what he said. You know what he said—we _all_ know what he said. Quit playing dumb and own up to the fact that you have a weasel for a son—"

"Shade." Dad warns.

"Alright, enough!" Glasser explodes, making me jump. "Enough, that's _enough_. This is what I know; witnesses have confirmed that _you,_"—an irritated glance at Shade—"made the first swing. Correct or incorrect?"

"Correct, but—"

"And that _you_, Miss Calore, used your ability to physically harm Mr. Sealock. True or untrue?"

"Mr. Glasser—"

"True or untrue, Coriane?" His beady eyes burn, demanding an answer. With a slow blink and a sigh, I relent.

"True."

"Right then. So any notion of punishment goes unchallenged by both parties?" A careful question; from where he stands, he's sharing a room with powerful people, and I don't mean lightning and flame. Their voices carry weight, carry influence. My parents are not anyone you'd want to upset, but even so, Glasser cannot afford us any special treatment.

"Yes," I say, preparing myself. _Suspend me. Make me a part-time janitor. Don't expell me_.

What Mr. Sealock suggests is so much worse.

His voice is low, sharp, without warmth. Almost like a chair scraping against the floor.

"Take her bracelet."

Even Kausa gapes.

_I_ gape. Because _that_... so unexpected, completely different from what I had schemed. My plan—this is not part of the plan. Something inside me twists.

My first instinct is to run. No, they can't. They won't.

They won't.

"What? _No_—"

"I think it's a fair idea," Kausa's mother says. "It's sure to teach her a lesson. That she can't go around frying people she has a problem with."

"But—Mr. Glasser, _please_. You don't know the things he says to me, about my family. And the millionth time he crosses the line, _I_ get penalized for crossing it _once_?"

Not entirely true, but I've suddenly turned desperate.

I can see the conflict in the principal's eyes; guilt because he could understand the situation from my perspective, resolve because he knows the Sealocks have him in their jaws, and they won't let go until they get what they want.

"I... I will admit, it seems reasonable."

My heart sinks.

Dad has been simmering next to me for several moments, carefully keeping his composure, but letting a bit of his rage slip through. He raps the table harshly, fully displaying his own bracelets. Two, as opposed to the single pieces Shade and I have. His are more fine-tuned, more precise. Like his ability, honed by decades of practice and training. Sharpened by raw skill.

"Then _we_ will demand expulsion," he nearly growls, his tone all command. Not a brazen threat, but the implication is there. Almost like he's daring them to oppose him.

But the Sealocks are idiots, and that's exactly what they do.

It doesn't even excite me, how my father just pushed my agenda forward. Until Mrs. Sealock speaks, all I can think is how I will survive without my bracelet.

"How utterly _bold _of you, General Calore," the woman says. "Unfortunately, you don't have the authority to make those kinds of demands anymore."

"Perhaps," Mom interrupts, her cheeks flushed with annoyance. "Still, we're good friends with Premier Randolph. I'll bet he has _exactly_ the kind of authority you're describing."

"I vote yes," Shade says—stupidly, I might add. This will obviously not be chalked up to a vote. "I've been waiting for this."

Kausa, who has been eyeing all of us with anxiety, turns white as a sheet. "How am I getting expelled? I'm the one who was burned!"

"Oh, _please_," I hiss—or try to, anyway. My voice has lost some of its fervor. "How many times have you insulted me, Sealock? How many times have you dumped wet trash into my bag, or flung spitballs at me, or let my assignments loose in the wind, or put some dead _thing_ in my locker?"

"Don't forget, Cori. Smacking me over the head with a textbook. Dropping chewed-up gum into my shirt. Holding my face underwater down at the pool. Isn't that right, Kausy?"

I huff. _Remember your plan_. I find myself fighting tears. "Mr. Glasser, you believe the witnesses who saw the incident. Why don't you believe _us_?"

A tired sigh, and the man kneads at his eyes. "It's different, Coriane; you two are biased."

"That doesn't make us liars. You want to take my bracelet?" I pull it off, hold it up between two fingers. Already its absence makes my skin smart, and my throat closes. "Fine. Only if you can assure me I won't need it anymore."

"And what's to stop me from taking it by force?"

It sounds ridiculous, coming from him. Next to me, Dad lets out a sound from deep in his throat, and Glasser blinks, swallowing.

"You can only do that if I'm a student here. Which I won't be, if Kausa stays."

Mom looks at me like I've grown another head.

_Plan._

"The choice is obvious," I continue. "My grades are far superior, as is my attendance, my involvement in extracurriculars, my relationships with members of the staff. Him or me, Mr. Glasser." I soften my face, plastering on a placating frown and swallowing hard. "Think of the awards I could win for this school. Think of the scholarships. The national placement I could help earn."

Unsurprisingly, Mrs. Sealock is nothing short of furious. "What insolence! This is no matter of academic performance. This is about the wrongful, completely spiteful use of ability when the rules clearly forbid it!"

"The rules also forbid harassing another student," Shade bites back. "Which makes Kausy here _twice_ the delinquent."

"You shut your trap, Calore." Kausa spits.

"_You shut your trap, Calore_," my brother mocks, making his voice reedy before scowling and reverting back to his deep baritone. "Come on, Mr. Glasser. Like Cori said; the choice is obvious."

Of course it is. And our principal knows it.

Silence, again. For a few seconds, a few minutes. My chest tightens.

Then—

"Ah, yes. Very well."

* * *

The playground five blocks from my house is busy, usually. It has a playground, with drops of water currently adhering to every surface, and you'd think people would keep away on days like this. But over on the slide and the monkey bars, two children play, oblivious to my tears as they fall to my lap, paying no heed to the teenaged girl too old for the swing set she sits on.

I feel bare, vulnerable. Still, I couldn't make myself go home, and neither could Shade.

I'm not a child; I don't need an explanation as to why Mom and Dad would want the house to themselves. And as uncomfortable as the idea makes me, I owe them some alone time. I've put them through enough trouble.

My bracelet is gone, probably locked in some fire-proof safe I couldn't melt if I tried. I don't know where it is; Glasser is the only person who does, given Shade's remark about stealing it back for me (which I plan to smack him for later)—and its general appeal as a marketable item. It's worth a lot, with first-rate craftsmanship, plus the fact that it was owned by a Calore.

Is _owned by a Calore_, I correct myself. _You'll get it back by the end of winter._

It's October. Autumn has just begun, and the start of my favorite season has never seemed so sad.

I shouldn't cry; Kausa was expelled, while Shade was given community service. And I haven't lost my ability. Just the very instrument that allows my imagination to run free. That lets me turn my flame into art, rather than just a form a destruction.

Dancing with ribbons of pure light, wrapping myself in coils of heat, illuminating a stage with my power. Reduced to watching candles burn with agonizing monotony, admiring the way the surface of the sun shimmers as it descends below the sky.

_Enough moping, Coriane. You'll get it back_.

Reluctantly, I wipe the tears from my cheeks and inhale the crisp air, tracing patterns on my leg with my fingers. Imagining a new routine, envisioning myself and a few other girls from the studio moving like Silks, gliding and flowing and drifting.

Part of me wishes Shade were here with me, but I don't know where he is. Once the meeting was over, Mom and Dad went home in the transport, and I went my own way with one last glance at Sealock. His eyes had been sad, but determined. Not angry. I have never seen him genuinely angry.

And speak of the devil.

I harbor a secret, and he strides toward me now, appearing behind a set of trees adjacent to the stone path that leads from the street to this playground. The children run off, hopping along the path, headed toward the road beyond from which the foliage hides the park.

His hair sparkles with droplets of rain; he walked several miles from his own house to get here. It is the color of umber, soft as silk. I like to run my fingers through it when he's reading a book. Watching him read is somehow fascinating; listening to the drum of his fingers on the spine, seeing his hazel eyes skim quickly over each line.

"I knew you would be here," he says softly, footsteps quiet as he pads over to sit in the swing beside mine. He almost doesn't fit. A faint smile tugs at my lips.

"And I knew you would find me," I reply. "I wanted to see you before your parents murder you in your sleep."

He winks at me. "Coriane Giselle Calore." He says my name with reverence. "Has anyone ever told you what a sensational actress you are?"

He doesn't acknowledge my tears, which I am grateful for. I wipe my eyes and laugh, shaking the straight black hair from my forehead. "It's a gift. I might say the same of you." My fist playfully pushes his shoulder. He catches it, tugging me toward him. I almost fall off the swing, but he plants his hands on my arms and pulls me to my feet before standing himself.

I throw my arms around his neck, inhaling that familiar scent of sweet steam and salt. "Did you get the invitation?" I ask.

"Just as planned."

Then he presses his lips to mine. Soft, slow. So unlike the front he puts up at school. His mouth tastes like peppermint tea and those candy ropes he enjoys chewing. I glide my tongue along his, crinkling my nose in delight when he sighs in response.

When I pull away, he grins, flashing pearly teeth. "I love you."

I tell him, "I love you, too, Kausa."

* * *

Burning him was a ruse. Taunting me was a ruse.

Side by side, we take the long way back to my neighborhood, having just spent the better part of the evening chatting on the swings, occasionally stealing a kiss or two.

He's not as brutish as everyone else thinks. His expressions are kind when he's not scowling, his features handsome, his voice deep and warm like melted chocolate. He's broad, yes, but not awkwardly so, able to throw me over a shoulder with hardly any effort.

It pains me to see Shade loathe him—to know he believes _I_ loathe him as well. But that's the way it has to be for the moment. Though today's goal was accomplished, Kausa and I are far from finished.

Several months ago, we'd set into motion our plan to get him expelled; he started his campaign to make school hell for me and my brother—or so it appeared. I hated to do it to Shade, but it was all for one purpose: to get Kausa an invitation into an extremely exclusive, secretive association—those who call themselves the Bloodcry. I'd gotten my fourth letter when Kausa started to display an interest in me, which was, of course, reciprocated. But not only was it a chance at love; it was a chance to destroy the source of the letters. To expose them. To ruin them like they threatened to ruin me.

Thus began the taunts. Our ploy. And after this morning, after receiving his invitation, Kausa will rise to Bloodcry leadership and make it crumble beneath him.

The main issue had getting him in. I figured all members each had a viable reason to hate Reds and newbloods. And what better reason would a Silver have than that of a newblood causing their indefinite suspension? Robbing them of a place in such a prestigious school? Stealing any bright future?

I knew I could convince Glasser to expel him, as I knew Dad would suggest it. I just needed to create a situation grave enough to merit such a private meeting. I needed a violent outburst. A vile comment, just horrible enough to make a girl with a perfect record snap.

It cut my heart into a million pieces, having Kausa insult my mother that way. Even if it wasn't real.

Kausa played his part perfectly; he'd make for a formidable court spy, if this was still that kind of world.

It's not a good idea, walking in public together, when our entire strategy is to make it seem like we despise each other. But the streets are mostly abandoned; today, there is an annual festival at the main square, something the city puts together for its youth. I never go, opting to avoid exploded eardrums from giant speakers on the highest bass setting. And you can't get in if you're not in costume, since it's October, and I would never stoop to that level of ridiculousness.

Every year, it's called something different. I stopped paying attention around the age of seven.

I can tell Kausa wants to reach for my hand, but we're already pushing it. Instead we trade short, clipped words, careful to look tense and antagonistic. Just in case the wrong eyes follow us.

"I'm... I'm sorry about your bracelet," he says, his voice hard and quiet. "I didn't know my parents would do that."

"Don't worry about it," I reply. "I can ask Evangeline to make me another one."

I won't, though. Mawkish as it sounds, I don't want any other.

He huffs. "Your casual use of royals' names always surprises me. Must be nice, being a Calore."

I roll my eyes. "Former royals, you mean. We don't much care for formality, anyway."

I itch to hold his hand, too. I sigh, wishing it were cold enough to see my breath on the bitter air. "It's not so glamorous as you might think. Sure, we get expensive gifts from the premier on Christmas, and sure, we get to travel all over the continent. But you haven't seen the dirty looks we get sometimes."

"Your family?"

"At times. Dad gets a few. Mom gets more. Mostly, it's me and Shade. The freak abominations." I say that last part with a cold smile, letting it chill my blood.

"You're a treasure," he says almost defensively. I let a tiny laugh slip.

But then we approach something shiny and gold, left haphazardly along the inner edge of the sidewalk. We slow as we near it, something about the gleaming surface making my stomach drop.

I inch closer. Closer still.

The letters _s. t. c._ are engraved on the edge. And beside the damning thing, in a small pool that makes me suddenly sick to my stomach, is blood the color of bronze.

Vaguely, I hear Kausa whisper beside me, "Is that...?"

I nod.

In less than a second, I know without a doubt what has happened here. And who is responsible.

My big brother, who's never gotten any letter, who is the least involved person in the situation...

I want to vomit. Drawn in his blood, an eye stares back at us, all angles and harsh lines.

The Bloodcry have taken him.

* * *

thank u for making it to the end! as i mentioned before, hope u don't hate it. new chapter coming soon, and i think you'll really like it!

tell me what you thought of this chapter, pretty please? ;)

xo


	3. author's note: i'm working on it!

what a wait, huh?

i promise i've been working on new chapters. and they're coming soon, but it might take a little time. piece of advice: do NOT major in biology. a girl thinks she's smart until college chemistry tosses her into a metaphorical meat grinder and smirks to the sound of her broken dreams...

anyhoo, the next chapter will be from our lovely friend Mare's perspective. i'm still trying to decide who should narrate next. i think it'll be Shade though.

your thoughts? ;)

thank you for appreciating my writing. if you've ever left me one of those beautiful, precious reviews, i love you and i thank you from the bottom of my heart, and know that i've read every one about a million times and i cherish them dearly. dramatic? maybe. do i care?

no. :)

Mare will see her son again. She'll find the person responsible. And lighting will have no mercy.

toodaloo!


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